by Tony Lewis
“Ouch,” he whined, rubbing the sore spot. “Nearly there now, though.”
“Tremendous. Just make sure you keep that malignant dwarf away from me.”
“What, old Egon?”
“Mmmm. He gives me the willies, always staring at me in that weird way. I think I know what he’s thinking. But if I don’t know what he’s thinking I don’t want to know what he’s thinking.”
Ollie squinted. “And what exactly do you think he’s thinking then?”
“I wonder how he works, and would I be able to put him back together again?”
“So he thinks you’re Humpty Dumpty then?”
Ollie received a rather rude two fingered reply. “You won’t be making jokes when I’m scattered all over the castle grounds and my head’s on a jesters stick next to his bed.”
“Don’t worry. Jocular keeps him on a tight rein.”
“Round his neck, hopefully.”
The door slid back once more as Bill announced their arrival. “There you go gents, safe an sarnd, luvly jubbly, would you Adam and Eve it, rub a dub dub an all at.”
“I didn’t get a word of that,” said Stitches.
“He said we’re here.”
“Oh, right. Tell you what;, he’s the only English bloke I’ve ever met that needs an English interpreter.” He turned to Bill, a mischievous look in his eyes. “Cheers cakey me ole sock, catch the muffin penguin side about half past pants. Wibble?”
“Righto, John,” Bill replied jovially as he turned the cab round, “look forward to it.” He waved and drove off.
Stitches was too dumbfounded to be coherent. “Did he… I mean, did I…”
Ollie clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, you top hat. Let’s go and find out why we’re here.”
* * *
Flug threw a counter down onto the kitchen table. “Snap,” he bellowed.
Ronnie gazed at him dejectedly through the cloud of cigarette smoke that was ever present around his head. “That’s very good, but this is draughts, remember. You take your opponents pieces by jumping over them.”
“Ah, me get it.”
Flug picked up all of Ronnie’s black counters and placed them into a neat pile on the floor.
“Oh, he’s not,” Ronnie muttered to himself.
Flug carefully gauged his position and leaped over the stack with all the grace of a new born rhino with a hip problem. He landed with a bone jarring thud on the other side of the now spilt pile of discs. He stood there, grinning proudly. “Mine now. Me win.”
Ronnie put his hands over his face and shook his head. “Yes, mate. A bit too literal, but you win. Remind me never to play Murder in the Dark with you.”
Flug picked up the pieces and returned them to the board. “What we do now?” he asked.
“Dunno, really. Ollie and Stitches are up at the castle, and all the pubs and clubs are shut. Fancy going out for a walk?”
“Yeah, we go sing Christmas Carols. Heh, Ron?”
“If you like. Make a change hearing them in April. Come on, then.”
* * *
Cowan sat behind his desk, studying the four Marines before him. They stood rigidly to attention, so much so that a rugby scrum would have had trouble shifting them. They were heavily made up for covert night ops, and each carried night vision goggles and an array of weapons, including tranquilliser guns. They were his best men. They needed to be.
“I cannot stress enough the importance of you men bringing me back a live specimen. I know it’s a tough assignment, but you can handle it. You’ve enough tranq between you to floor an elephant, so there’s no need for any of you to take any risks and get hurt.”
“Don’t worry, sir,” said one. “It’s just a simple seek and trap exercise. We’ll have it put to sleep before it knows what’s going on.”
Cowan stood up and methodically approached the squad.
“That may be, but these monsters take victims all the time. Forget everything you might have heard or seen in a stupid movie. Full moons don’t seem to matter, they transform when they get the urge to hunt and silver bullets don’t work because we’ve tried them.
These things are more dangerous than anything you’ve ever come across before, so watch yourselves. They’re not wild animals or some rabid dog that needs putting down. They’re agile, super-efficient killing machines with the strength of five men and the intelligence to match, so don’t play games out there. Get the job done and we can all get out of this Godforsaken place. Understood, marines?”
“Sir, yes sir.”
* * *
About forty five minutes after the marines headed out on their perilous mission, Mrs. Ladle was wandering around the town square cursing and muttering to herself. She was having trouble with the Aeronautical Dynamics of her Pre-Industrial Revolution Floatation Device. To the layman and those who don’t understand management speak, her broomstick wouldn’t fly. She’d tried everything from white magic to black magic, and even a little bit of beige magic, which was usually so weak that it would normally struggle to turn a newly retired couple into members of the Caravan Club. She’d tried casting various spells, drawn runes and pentagrams on every available surface, mixed various potions and finally resorted to chucking the damn thing into the air in the vain hope that it would stay there. Lastly, she’d dived off the Town Hall in an attempt to jump start it, but this had only resulted in an unfortunate head-on meeting with Bill the Coachman’s horses. Disheartened, she unscrewed the cap at the top of the handle and checked inside. As she thought, there was plenty of flight powder in there and it was nice and dry. It was at that moment that Ronnie and Flug came round the corner and saw her predicament.
“Still having trouble, luv?” Ronnie asked pleasantly. “Anything we can do to help?”
Mrs. Ladle smiled, hawked loudly and spat on the floor in the traditional witches greeting. Well, it was traditional for her as it would be for anyone who smoked eighty fags a day that had enough tar in them to surface a dual carriageway. She rested her defunct mode of transport against a wall and pulled out her cigarettes, which she kindly offered to the two night time wanderers. Ronnie lit his and took a long drag. Flug ate his and took a long swallow.
“Unless you know how to get that stupid thing into the air, then I’m afraid not.”
Ronnie blew a smoke ring the size of a steering wheel into the still night air and shook his head. “I think I might be a bit out of my depth tinkering with that thing of yours, but I know a man who might be able to help.”
“Who’s that?”
“Professor Crumble. I bet he’d have a few ideas.”
“Rhubarb Crumble?” she asked, recognition dawning. “The worst scientist and inventor that ever entered a lab.”
Ronnie smiled and nodded. “That’s the one.”
“The man who invented a teapot with the spout on the inside to avoid spills.”
“Even he.”
“The dimwit who owns the patent on the world’s first paper submarine.”
“Yup.”
Mrs. Ladle dragged some fluid up from the depths of her lungs and launched it at the Town Hall wall, where it hung like a crucified jellyfish.
“What makes you think that pot plant can help me?”
“I didn’t say he could,” said Ronnie, squashing his spent smoke under his boot, “but it seems to me that you’re having so much grief with that thing that you’ve got nothing to lose.”
“That’s a very valid point. Is he still up?”
“Crumble always awake,” rumbled Flug, “he a maniac.”
“Insomniac,” corrected Ronnie, “and yes, he is. Try him, Mrs. Ladle. You never know.”
“Mmmm. I’m more than likely going to end up wishing that I hadn’t, but okay. Thanks boys.”
With that she retrieved her broomstick and sauntered off.
Ronnie waved her goodbye. “She’s pleasant for a witch.”
“A what?” replied Flug.
“Not a what, a witch.”
>
“Which what?”
“Not which what, that witch.”
“Which witch?”
“That witch, the one we’ve just been talking to.”
Flug slapped his head in sudden and unexpected comprehension. “Ah, me not know which witch you mean.”
Ronnie looked puzzled. “What do you mean which witch. There was only one.”
Flug grabbed Ronnie’s arm and pulled him into a dark recess in the wall. He peered round the side and bade Ronnie do the same. “There more witches.”
Ronnie allowed his gaze to follow in the direction that Flug was pointing. On the other side of the Town Square was a row of houses and shops and behind that, separated from the properties by a wide, overgrown path, was the forest, and it. It was into this forest, through an alleyway between two houses, that Flug was indicating.
“Dere, Ron,” he whispered, “in da trees.”
Ronnie leaned further forward and squinted, trying to block out the extraneous light, forcing his eyes to penetrate the darkness.
“Whoever put you together gave you good vision, Flug mate. I can’t see a thing.”
“Dere,” repeated Flug, pointing as hard as he could. “Witches carrying dere sticks.”
Ronnie definitely had qualms about believing the monster, but he was being so insistent that he had to give the big dope the benefit of the doubt.
“Look, I really can’t see a thing. Tell you what, you stay here, nice and quiet, and I’ll go and have a look, okay?”
“Okay, Ron. Be careful.”
“Hey, don’t worry. They won’t see me coming. Stand back.”
Flug pressed himself to the wall and made himself as inconspicuous as possible, which was no mean feat for something eight feet tall with the body mass index of a Volvo.
Ronnie stood still and relaxed, allowing his respiration to slow until a good breath in and out was taking nearly thirty seconds. Then he, quite simply, imagined himself fading away to nothing. A tingling started in his fingers and toes, and his stomach churned with a nervous cramp, the type you’d get on a first date, not unpleasant, but enough to keep you within dashing distance of the nearest toilet. The more he concentrated, the more intense the feeling became, until POW. The shock was like an ice cold shower and he was never ready for it.
“My God, I’ll never get used to that if I live to be six hundred. How do I look mate?”
“Me dunno, me can’t see you,” Flug replied, staring into the space that his friend had previously occupied.
“Perfect, that’s the idea. Now you wait for me here okay? I’m just going to have a nose around, see if I can see what you see, alright?”
“Kay,” stuttered Flug. “But don’t be too long, me get scared.”
“Try counting to ten, that’ll take your mind off things for a bit. Won’t be long.”
“One, F… ummm.”
* * *
“Can’t I wait here?”
“Why?”
Stitches gave Ollie his ‘do I have to state the bleeding obvious’ look and sighed sarcastically.
“Oh, don’t worry about it. Here, take these.” Ollie reached into a pocket and pulled out a brightly coloured cardboard tube which he handed to Stitches.
“Jelly Bodybits!” said the indignant zombie.
“Egon loves them. Give him one every few minutes and he’ll be putty in your hands. The red ones are his favourite.”
“It’s not him being putty in my hands that’s the concern; it’s me being dismembered body parts in his that’s a tiny niggle. If I give him sweeties he’ll just think I really like him.”
“But it’ll distract him. Trust me.”
“I suppose so. But if I end up as an umbrella stand, I’ll tell His Lordship that you like watching moths flying round the garden of an evening with a mug of Ovaltine and a big stack of Bob’s Nobs.”
Ollie did a reasonably good impression of a goldfish. “Well that’s just childish.”
“I thought so.”
Ollie reached up and grabbed the enormous door knocker in both hands and gave it a mighty swing. It boomed against the massive oak door like a thunderclap and made the ground tremble beneath their feet. It echoed around the valley like a volley of cannon fire.
“Bit over the top,” murmured Stitches.
From the other side of the six inch thick door they could hear bolts being thrown, keys being turned and chains being released.
“He’s rather security conscious for a vampire, isn’t he?” observed Stitches.
Ollie just stood patiently with his hands clasped firmly behind his back. He was as nervous as a postman at Crufts, but he didn’t show it.
“Mmmm. Last time I was here he asked me to find out if there’s a local Crime-stoppers Group.”
“What on earth for? Don’t his children of the night and his retinue of imps and thralls look after him?”
“Well, yes,” replied Ollie. “But they don’t work weekends.”
“Oh, right. Well, I suppose you can’t be too careful. Fangs ain’t what they used to be.”
“Keep that up and I’ll let Egon have his way with you.”
The iron handle turned and the door began to open slowly and painfully, creaking like an MFI wardrobe. A small hand crept around the edge about two feet off the ground and gripped the wood. They heard puffs and pants as the, whatever it was, and it could be anything, strained to let them in. Moaning and complaining emanated from within as the gap widened.
“Bloody thing…far too heavy…ruining my hands…get a nice UPVC double glazed one…but oh no…tight as a virgin’s… Ah. Welcome, sir, and welcome to you, Master Stitches. Delighted to see you both again.”
I wish I could say the same, thought Stitches.
Egon was four feet tall, bow legged, had splayed feet, arms that hung down to his knees and the traditional hump, the prerequisite appendage for any servant of the dark arts and their weird ways. Uniquely, the hump wasn’t in the traditional place. It was on a lead by his feet and it followed him everywhere. Facially, he looked like he’d been set on fire and put out with a speeding train, and had a comb over that beggared belief. It could easily have covered two bald heads. Interesting was the kindest way to describe Egon’s appearance. Melted was more appropriate. He resembled a candle that had been left too close to an open fire.
“Come in come in,” said the diminutive servant, ushering the two visitors into the dusty innards of the castle. “The Master is waiting for you in the sketching room.”
“Sketching room?” enquired Stitches.
“It’s similar to a drawing room, just a tad smaller.”
“I had to ask.”
“Indeed. Allow me, gentlemen,” said Egon, indicating a long corridor leading off the hall they were standing in. “Walk this way.”
“Don’t you dare,” warned Ollie, pointing a prohibitive finger at his colleague.
“No. Wasn’t going to.”
Above them was a magnificent vaulted ceiling that was at least thirty feet high. Dark wooden beams criss-crossed the stonework, meeting in the middle, where ornately carved centre pieces supported grand candelabras every few yards. There were so many candles burning that the heat they gave off could be felt at floor level. It must have been a hell of a job lighting them all. The walls of the corridor were adorned with fine old paintings and tapestries depicting wars, sieges, skirmishes and just about every other form of conflict you could think of. Suits of armour that no human form could ever have fit into stood sentinel at regular intervals along the passageway. Two headed, multi limbed, no limbed, web footed, they were all there.
“Looks like we’ve wandered onto the set of Star Wars,” observed Stitches as they passed a suit of armour that looked like a four car pile-up.
“Very droll, Master Stitches,” said Egon without turning or stopping. “Obviously you’ve noticed the eclectic nature of the displays.”
Stitches was rather taken aback at being overheard. He thought he’d spoken quietl
y enough to get away with the quip. “Well, um, yes. I was wondering what sort of creatures would have fit into them.”
“None, actually. His Lordship created them. Well, he conceived them. I built them. The Master fancies himself as a bit of an interior designer.”
“You don’t say. How did that come about?” asked Ollie, who after several visits to the Castle realised that he actually knew very little about Jocular.
Egon stopped and turned to face them. His face paled, if that were possible, and his eyes dropped to the floor, a sad look on his face.
“It was one terrible weekend. His Lordship became sick. Blood poisoning. Or more correctly, poisoned blood. He was vomiting everywhere and believe me, you haven’t smelt anything until you’ve had a whiff of several pints of partially digested blood.”
“Oh, I don’t know, “interjected Stitches. “When Flug’s had eight pints of Rotten Badger, the stench of his sh…”
“Thank you,” Ollie cut in. “Do go on, Egon.”
“Thank you, sir. Well, as I said, the Master was confined to his room and of course even vampires get bored if they can’t get out, so he asked me to get him satellite television.”
“Oh dear.”
“Quite. He found UK Unliving and spent the whole weekend watching back to back episodes of that awful show, you know, the one with that interfering Scottish witch and her foppish posse, visiting the homes of the undead and ruining them.”
“Ah, Changing Tombs,” said Ollie.
“Ouch, that is bad,” added Stitches. “I mean, who’s ever heard of a ghoul having satin throw pillows and a pink coffee table made of driftwood?”
Egon raised an eyebrow, which was a weird sight because it was on his cheek. “Well, exactly. Unfortunately the Master loved it, and ever since he’s been fiddling with the place like there’s no tomorrow. Some parts of the castle look like they belong in a fairground. You will notice strange things dotted around the place, so if you’re with His Lordship, either say something complimentary or wait for him to point it out to you. Then say something complimentary.”